Mr Brightside
by Morelenmir
Summary: In honour of Dean's birthday, I give you this: Sam and Dean deal with the aftermath of a hunt gone south. Well, Sam's trying to get Dean to deal with it.


After _Bloodlust_ and before _All Hell Breaks Loose: Part 1_; no spoilers.

* * *

"What're we gonna do now?"

"Same thing we've always done, Sammy; you're just going to be hunting alone a few nights outta the month."

Sam huffed and pursed his lips, looking across the gaudy motel room at his bull-headed brother sitting on the bed closest to the door, who gave him a cheerful green-eyed smirk and kept cleaning his Colt. The taller Winchester briefly considered throwing the bloody gauze in his hand at his older brother.

Dean didn't bother to check Sam's expression—he was fully aware of the murderous thoughts that were radiating from Sam like a wounded porcupine, and he also knew that the gauze wouldn't end up in his face and his baby brother would really not like cayenne in his shorts again.

Watching Dean endlessly work the soft chamois over the pearl-handled handgun, pointedly ignoring his nearly twitching sibling, Sam finally opened his mouth again. "Can you please take this seriously? There are going to be hunters coming after you, Dean, doing exactly what we would do."

"So put a bullet in me." Dean looked up from his cleaning to sharply hold his brother's concerned eyes and continued bluntly, "We already know how to kill them—me—and everything needed is right here in this room." He slid a knife from the duffle bag beside him, careful not to touch it anywhere but the hilt, and flipped it, butt-end held out to Sam. His face was as set as his voice. "Do it."

He looked at the sharp silver blade angled toward Dean's chest and shook his dark head, even as he took the knife from the elder Winchester's grip. "I…don't ask me to do that."

"I'm a monster."

"No, you're not," Sam objected.

Dean studied him for an endless second with implacable green eyes and then dropped his gaze. "Okay. But here's the plan-"

"You have a plan?"

"'Course I have a plan, Sam!" The brothers inspected each other for a long moment and Dean shrugged slightly. "It might be more of a thing. A work in progress. And don't roll your eyes at me, young lady."

"I wasn't- whatever."

"You done, princess? Okay, plan: Only Bobby knows."

"Wow, didn't see that coming."

"Shuddup. That's part one; only Bobby can know—not Ellen, Jo, Ash, _nobody_ else. A secret's best kept with as few in on it as possible. I trust them but not that much; I trust him to not gank me the moment he finds out."

"Okay." Sam nodded obediently, sitting down on his bed.

"Two: We have to be ridiculously careful. Don't even talk about it to Bobby over the phone; we've gotta be paranoid careful, make certain nobody finds out, or else-"

"Your head is on a plate," Sam finished.

"Thank you for the delightful image." Dean glared briefly at the young, lanky adult on the opposite bed as he rose to pace in the cramped space between furniture and walls. "Three: When it gets to be…that time, find a place to lock me up. Chain me, drug me, whatever—just make sure I can't get loose."

Sam nodded again, almost afraid to interrupt. He watched the shorter man pause, intently studying the far wall with a gaze that suggested he wasn't even seeing the brilliant magenta-and-yellow flowered paper.

"And four." He was quiet and still, meeting Sam's concerned green-eyed gaze seriously as he said, "If I ever hurt anyone, just once, you do not hesitate. You kill me right then and there." His voice was cold and cut through Sam like sharpened steel; he shivered.

"Look, Dean, I-"

"Promise me, Sam! For God's sake, it's not me in front of you, it's a monster!" Dean's eyes were hard as he shouted and yet brittle, as though a single touch or word could make him shatter.

"I'll find a way to save you."

"There is no saving, Sammy, not from this. Look, I don't want to wake up and find out I've killed someone. I'm asking you…God, I'm begging here, Sam." His voice was ragged as he struggled down from a shout. Sam watched Dean's face close off, become another blank mask with empty holes for eyes, and he turned away.

Afraid.

Angry.

Refusing help.

So damned typical.

"I won't ask you again and I don't want to talk about this over and over with you, Sam." His tone was blunt, words dropped heavily over his shoulder. "We'll deal with it when it comes, and if it goes sour, then that's that."

"Dean."

He watched his older brother tense even more, fighting to not fist his hands or snap at Sam. After a moment, Dean slowly turned, impassive.

"What."

"I promise."

Dean considered that for a second.

"Liar."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

And just like that, the tension in the room vanished. Sam was surprised there wasn't an audible snap. Dean returned to his bed and resumed working over his well-treated weapons, and then immediately glanced over to snark at his brother with a smirk.

"Hey, maybe it'll be cool."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Right. And how could that _possibly_ be, Dean?"

Dean grinned. "There could be advantages to being bitten by a werewolf."

* * *

Happy birthday Dean, I got you a werewolf curse!


End file.
